Vanessa Lazy Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Gdansk

But here’s what gets me mad—folks judgin’ ‘em. “Oh, she’s trash!” they say. Trash? C’mon! She’s out there, grindin’, makin’ ends meet—takes balls, if ya ask me. Like Linguini in *Ratatouille*, screamin’, “I’m not your puppet!”—she ain’t nobody’s fool either. Hustlin’s tough, y’know? Cops hasslin’, creeps lurkin’—makes me wanna yell, “Leave ‘er alone!”

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My mother was a year-old French prostitute named Chloe with webbed feet. My father would womanize; he would drink. He would make outrageous claims like he invented the question .

Then, outta nowhere, the fire alarm goes off. I’m like, “Great, just what I need.” Everyone’s panicking, running around like headless chickens. I’m trying to keep my cool, but inside, I’m like, “This is it. This is how I go.” Turns out, it was just some burnt popcorn in the break room. Seriously? Popcorn? I could’ve used that drama for a good story, but nope. Just popcorn.

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